A mystery as dazziling as a hall of mirrors. A seductive, terrifying, all-too-real world. A beguiling, erotic literary adventure. Discover why readers everywhere are enthralled by this “marvelous confection of a book.”* In which the astonishing adventure to end all adventures continues—and the excitement doubles. Like every other honest man, an assassin has his reputation to consider. So it is with Cardinal Chang. A brutal killer with the heart of a poet, Chang is no longer able to trust those who hired him. Disconcerted, he sets out on the trail of a mystery like no other, in a city few have traveled to—featuring three unlikely heroes with a most intriguing bond. *Philadelphia Inquirer “Fantastic…I was in seventh heaven.” —Kate Mosse, author of Labyrinth “Carr[ies] the reader on a mind-twisting odyssey…sweeping, highly original and absorbing.” — Dallas Morning News “Studded with treats…beautifully written.” —Entertainment Weekly “As flat-out fun, engaging and funny as any tale of mystery and imagination I can recall.” — Cleveland Plain Dealer “A remarkable achievement of imagination and stellar writing.” — Tampa Tribune “An erotically charged, rip-roaring adventure for adults with scarcely a dull moment to be had, which defies its great length to keep the reader on the edge of his seat.” — Daily Mail Gordon Dahlquist is a native of the Pacific Northwest, where he worked for several years writing and directing plays. Since 1988 he has lived in New York. He has been a member of New Dramatists, is a New York Theatre Workshop Usual Suspect, and a founding member of the CiNE. His works include Messalina (Evidence Room, Los Angeles: SPF, New York), text for Babylon Is Everywhere: A Court Masque (CiNE, Schaeberle Theatre; Theatre Magazine), Delirium Palace (Evidence Room, Los Angeles; published in Breaking Ground ), The Secret Machine (Twilight Theatre Company at Solo Rep), Vortex du Plaisir (Ice Factory ’99 Festival at the Ohio Theatre, WKCR’S Manhattan Theatre of the Air), Island of Dogs (4th Street Theatre), Severity’s Mistress (Soho Rep Theatre, New York University; winner of Primary stages’ Bug &Bub award), Mission Byzantium! (American Globe Theatre, NYTW’s Just Add Water Festival), and Reitcence (Horace Mann Theatre). He has written and directed several experimental films, that have been selected for the San Francisco International Film Festival, the Seattle International Film Festival, and the Northwest Film and Video Film Festival. He is a graduate of Reed College and Columbia University’s School of the Arts. He has received two Garland Playwriting Awards for Messalina and Delirium Palace. The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters is his first novel. Chapter One Royale Once she made a decision, Miss Temple considered it an absolutely ridiculous waste of time to examine the choice further—and so from the vantage of her coach she did not debate the merits of her journey to the St. Royale Hotel, instead allowing herself the calming pleasure of watching the shops pass by to either side and the people of the city all about their day. Normally, this was not a thing she cared for—save for a certain morbid curiosity about what flaws could be deduced from a person's dress and posture—but now, as a consequence of her bold separation from the Doctor and Cardinal Chang, she felt empowered to observe without the burden of judgment, committed as she was to action, an arrow in mid-flight. And the fact was, she did feel that merely being in motion had stilled the tempest of feeling that had overtaken her in the Comte's garden and, even worse, in the street. If she was not up to the challenge of braving the St. Royale Hotel, then how could she consider herself any kind of adventurer? Heroines did not pick their own battles—the ones they knew they could win. On the contrary, they managed what they had to manage, and they did not lie to themselves about relying on others for help instead of accomplishing the thing alone. Would she be safer to have waited for Chang and Svenson—however much of the plan was her own devising—so they could have entered the place in force? It was arguable at the very least (stealth, for one) that she alone was best suited for the task. But the larger issue was her own opinion of herself, and her level of loss, relative to her companions. She smiled and imagined meeting them outside the hote—she chuckled at how long it would take them to find her—vital information in hand and perhaps the woman in red or the Comte d'Orkancz, now utterly subject, in tow. Besides, the St. Royale held her destiny. The woman in red, this Contessa Lacquer-Sforza (simply another jot of proof, as if any were needed, of the Italian penchant for ridiculous names) was her primary enemy, the woman who had consigned her to death and worse. Further, Miss Temple could not help wonder at the woman's role in the seduction—there was no other word—of Roger Bascombe. She knew obje